


primal directive

by kaermorons



Series: Witcher Bingo Card~ [4]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: First Time, Fuck Or Die, Jealousy, M/M, Mutual Pining, Porn with barely any plot, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 12:02:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25969357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaermorons/pseuds/kaermorons
Summary: Geralt’s weird habit of finding Lambert on the Path has its motivations revealed when they’re both infected by a strange plant.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Lambert
Series: Witcher Bingo Card~ [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1828993
Comments: 14
Kudos: 92





	primal directive

**Author's Note:**

> Most special of thanks to [anarchycox](%E2%80%9C) for cheering me on through this, you’re a delight and I hope you enjoy this.
> 
> Also done for the bingo squares ‘Fuck or Die’ and ‘Jealousy’.

Geralt had this weird...habit. Well, he had a lot of fucking weird habits, but no one was going to tell him he was weird for talking to his horse. Ever since the siege on Kaer Morhen, he took it upon himself to treat his brothers, even other Witchers that weren’t Wolves, a bit better than he had before. Lambert remembered the cocky son of a bitch he grew up with, always talking about how much better he was because of his huge muscles and extra mutagens.

What a prick.

The newer, changed Geralt...he was nice, though.

But since their numbers went from the few-hundred to a few-dozen, Geralt’s been different. At Kaer Morhen, he shared his own mistakes and failures, and offered to spar more. He played games of Gwent with all of them when they wouldn’t play dice poker with the cheating bastard. He meditated with them in a group, instead of alone in his room. It was nice, but fucking weird. And on the Path...

On the Path things were much fucking weirder.

Lambert remembered the first letter he received, because it was the only letter he’d ever been sent, as he didn’t make it a point to sow connections in the Northern Kingdoms or anywhere else worth hunting in. Just look at Geralt, playing nice never ended well. The letter came by way of a kitchen witch’s portal services, appearing with a  _ sssssnap _ in the night, and landing on his chest. Lambert could smell, through the layers and layers of ozone that usually indicated  _ chaos, _ a familiar scent of leather and crisp water he’d always associated with—

“Geralt?” Lambert reignited his campfire with a shot of  _ Igni _ and read the letter hastily. There were no emergencies Geralt was informing him of, nor any urgent matters. In fact, Geralt seemed to...want to know how he was doing. He read the letter again. And then a few more dozen times for good measure. That night, in the dark and holding a bewitched letter, Lambert let a little piece of him he’d buried deep, deep down see the sun again.

It was the part of him he’d always held onto. For Geralt. Ever since they were children, Lambert had been enamored with him, even before the Trials and the extra mutations and the white hair and all the things the man would go on to do. Especially before then. He followed Geralt around Kaer Morhen like a little dog, but was met with snapped words of “piss off, puppy” and “won’t you stay away?” but that didn’t stop Lambert for many years, not until Geralt had left for the Path, just two years before Lambert ever did. With that absence, Lambert realized how embarrassing he had been, following after the man with stars in his eyes. It was seven years before they saw each other again, and by then they’d both changed, grown cold, hardened by the Path.

But after the siege, after burying the bodies of his fallen Wolves, after setting his friends to rest, things were different again, because suddenly Geralt was always  _ there. _

Several times a season, whenever Lambert would wander too close to larger cities, Geralt would catch up with him. They’d camp together, they’d eat and drink together, share a contract in a fraction of the time and effort, and go on their way. It happened so frequently that Lambert was sure Geralt had stuck a tracking charm on him, especially after the letter incident, but he learned to stop asking questions where Geralt was concerned. It hurt him a little too deep to think about why the White Wolf would be following him, keeping tabs on his movements.

At Kaer Morhen, the Witchers that were left did not share similar stories about Geralt’s appearances. For all Lambert knew, Geralt had only visited him. For years, it really wasn’t something they talked about, why Geralt let his Path intertwine with Lambert’s. It was easier on his heart and mind just to imagine he wasn’t special to Geralt.

This time, they were just outside of Cintra when they crossed paths again. Lambert caught that familiar scent on the wind -  _ magic, leather, river _ \- and knew Geralt was nearby. Sure enough, another kilometer down the road, there was Roach, drinking from a small creek while Geralt rested on a little grassy hill. “Didn’t know Witchers were made to take naps,” Lambert greeted him. The bastard didn’t even open his eyes.

“Didn’t know Witchers were made to be such clingy assholes.” Geralt cracked an eye open, a smile just hinted at in his expression. “Good to see you.”

“Yeah, yeah, pretty boy, whatever.” Lambert was, once again, thankful for his slower heartbeat, concealing the joy he felt at seeing Geralt again. It had been three months since their last meeting, and it was now nearly autumn, just slogging through the dog days of summer now. Lambert wasn’t sure he would see him again in the time between then and the trek to Kaer Morhen. “Where’s the bard? Thought he was a clingy asshole too.”

“He has a festival or whatever. Wasn’t interested. Besides. Heard you were haunting the Cintran outskirts.” Geralt was the picture of casual rest, arms folded behind his back, stretched out like a cat in a sunbeam. Even his armor was loosened for comfort. Lambert took a seat away from the tree roots and reclined as well, lightening his load for a few minutes.

They lay in silence for almost an hour, just enjoying the nice weather, listening to the leaves rustle in the topmost canopies. When Geralt sat up, Lambert did as well, assembling his supplies and following Geralt to the next town. “Ooooh, you smell that?” Lambert said as soon as they walked past the first house.

“Smells like a contract.”

Sure enough, several anxious women were waiting by the town’s posting board, beseeching an alderman for help. As soon as he saw the two men approaching, he sagged in relief. “Oh, thank the gods, there’s a Witcher. Two Witchers!” he pointed out to the women, who all turned their worried expressions to Geralt and Lambert. Lambert amended his thought; they didn’t look worried. They looked...horny.

“What’s going on that you’d feel relief for two Witchers in town?” Lambert asked, prickly as always. They didn’t like non-humans in this part of the Continent, and he didn’t have the patience to deal with fetishists right now.

The alderman looked to Geralt, who hadn’t said anything so far and was therefore the easier man to speak to. After a moment, the alderman looked Geralt up and down in an appraising stare that Lambert had no idea how to interpret.  _ What the fuck? _ Something green and angry tightened in his chest, sucking all his organs in tight. The hungry desire in the man’s eyes didn’t waver as he explained the presence of a strange plant that had taken up residence in an old farm. It had been infecting their well. Several men had died under mysterious circumstances trying to rid the town of it, but the thing just seemed to keep growing larger and larger with every man who died.

Lambert looked to Geralt, who didn’t seem too concerned by the lusty stares the alderman -  _ and the widows, now that Lambert sees it _ \- were giving him. “Do you have payment if we get rid of it?” Geralt asked. The alderman almost tripped on himself to affirm this.

“My good Witcher, White Wolf, yes, of course, we’d be happy to employ you for this. Please let us know what it is - after you kill it. I’m sure the story will be heroic and—”

“Have you buried the corpses yet?” Lambert rolled his eyes and got down to business. Geralt hid a snuffling laugh behind a cough at the alderman’s suddenly pale face.

“We have, unfortunately. These are the widows of our...fallen citizens. I’m sure they’d be more than happy to answer any questions.”

“Yes, I want to know what happened to Viktor,” one widow simpered, fluttering her eyelashes.

“And Rolf!” another widow sighed, posing dramatically in her ‘grief.’

“Uh, yeah. We’ll talk to you tonight, and get to it in the morning. You have a tavern here? We’ve been traveling.” Geralt was quickly offered a great many rooms (more precisely, beds) to occupy for the night, but the tavern was fine by them, a shared room with two beds.

Lambert didn’t know why the advances were bothering him so much. He had no claim on Geralt, and certainly not where romance and bedpartners were concerned. In all his life, he could probably count on one hand how many times Geralt had hugged him, let alone...anything else. Like everything else about the White Wolf, Lambert elected to ignore it.

The tavern was much worse. Barmaids, scullery boys, the rest of the idle townspeople, they all fluttered their eyes at Geralt, grabbed at his arms to feel his biceps, drew their hands down his back possessively. Lambert was absolutely crawling out of his skin by the time Geralt came back with dinner and ale.

Geralt made soft conversation, mostly about what they’d learned from the widows and other townspeople, leaving out the dreadful things they learned about the town’s bedroom activities. Lambert couldn’t help but feel dreadfully distracted by the whole town sneaking glances at them. He didn’t normally go into settlements much larger than this, but the burning anger rising in his chest only served to solidify that Lambert needed to take a week or two off in the woods by himself for a while.

“Lambert?” Geralt asked, concerned. “You alright?”

“Fine,” Lambert pounded his ale. “Did you not want to go share a warm bed tonight? Why’re you kipping around with me?” He very deliberately didn’t meet Geralt’s eyes.

“I’d rather be with you,” Geralt said simply, confused by Lambert’s odd behavior. “I could...does it bother you when I see you on the Path?” Geralt’s earnest tone and matching expression melted the rest of Lambert’s frustration.

He sighed. “No, I...I appreciate it. Knowing you’re alive. Fighting with you. Talking with you. It’s…I see why you let the bard stick around.” Lambert toyed with his mug, a small frown on his face.

“It’s a little more complicated than that, but...you seem agitated. Have I offended you?” Geralt reached for Lambert’s wrist when he wouldn’t look at him, and Lambert snatched his hand back, quick as a flash. He stood and sighed, put a few crowns on the table.

“Gonna catch some rest. Come back to the room, don’t, I don’t care.” Lambert kept his voice even and toneless. He didn’t see the mournful eyes that followed him to the stairs.

A few hours later, Geralt crept in the door, closing it tightly behind himself. They both knew Lambert wasn’t asleep but didn’t speak about it. They both knew Geralt hadn’t slept with any of the dozens of those who had made the offer to but they didn’t mention it.

They didn’t mention it through breakfast, or the entire trek to the house the alderman had indicated. It was about three kilometers away, and out in the middle of a field. A barn, just as abandoned as the house, stood at the edge of the road. The fields were unkempt and wild, full of rodents and dry in the late-summer sun, despite the small stream they crossed nearby.

Geralt sucked in a breath. “Lambert—”

“Let’s go.” Geralt’s breath left in a sigh, full of too much emotion that Lambert didn’t want to begin to process the meaning of.

There was evidence the previous scorch mark attempts to burn the place down. They at least  _ tried _ before resorting to Witchers. Their medallions buzzed a little, in that pitch that indicated magic, but not monsters.

The whole house smelled like sweat and skin, salty-sweet and pure. The odor was one-note and most likely an enchantment. Beneath the cloying smell, Lambert smelled subtle perfumes, and a sharper scent he only really ever smelled in—

“It smells like old whorehouse in here.”

“Boutta say the same thing, pretty boy.” Lambert frowned, and they spread out. The alderman had mentioned a plant of some kind, but hadn’t specified much of anything else about it. “You think it shoulda been dead, with all the dry wheat out there.”

“Probably sucked up the water through the earth, leeched it out of everything in close distance to the house. If it goes into the well, it’ll be a bit before the water runs clean. We should try the cellar, it’s probably cooler there.”

“Brains and beauty, who’d’ve thunk a Witcher could do two things at once?” Geralt scoffed at him, which counted as a win. Lambert egged Geralt on for being the most  _ interesting _ Witcher to look at in the last thousand years, and he normally never rose to the goading. Even a scoff meant Lambert had gotten under his skin a little. “Oh, don’t sell yourself short, pretty boy—”

“Stop calling me that,” Geralt growled, inspecting the stairwell down to the basement.

“What should I call you, then? A Vingloradh?” Lambert bit back his grin at Geralt’s answering impatient growl. “Yeah, I think that’s—”

“Watch out!”

Quick as a flash, Geralt pulled Lambert back by his waist-belt, narrowly escaping the thrashing tendril that had been waiting for them to enter the basement.

“Looks like you’re right, it’s...well, I think saying it’s  _ in _ the basement is a bit of an understatement.”

The plant  _ was _ the basement. Its vines and pods covered the walls, the floors, even parts of the ceiling. It was an inky black-blue, with darts of shimmering red throughout. The smell was even stronger here, like Lambert had his face right in between a wet pair of thighs. He shook his head to concentrate and refocus. “Igni?” he asked Geralt.

“Might as well try. Aim for the floors.” Now with a plan of attack, Lambert and Geralt held out their hands in the Sign, and shot magical flames throughout the room. A shrill shrieking noise immediately drowned out any other noise as vines crisped and crumbled away from the stone walls.

Their casting was cut short when a rogue tendril wrapped itself around Lambert’s ankle and gave a sharp tug, taking his feet out from under him. He shouted as he hit the floor, letting go of his sword as he was drawn in. Geralt ceased his  _ Igni _ and shouted his name, pursuing at once. Lambert scrambled to grab at any vines that would slow himself down. Another vine wrapped around his other ankle, and he could not kick free, legs pulled apart but not with intent to draw and quarter him. His heart leapt into his throat, feeling exposed all at once.

Geralt gave a roar and sliced the tendrils off, freeing him, but they were now incredibly close to what Lambert assumed was the plant’s brain. Lambert got up to dive for his sword, lighter on his feet than before. Geralt cast  _ Igni _ on the giant pod, its pained screams making Lambert’s teeth ache from the volume. Lambert joined in to finish the job, hacking at any vines coming near Geralt’s legs and providing cover where needed.

A deep rumble, not of any beast or man, sounded from all around them. It creaked and groaned, as if—

“The house is coming down, we gotta go!” Lambert grabbed at Geralt’s belt, tugging him back just as Geralt had done before. They snapped into flight mode, taking the stairs four at a time, just as the far end of the basement began to shudder and collapse in on itself. Already, walls were falling and crumbling to the floor, splintered furniture splintering further under new stress. “Out, out!” Lambert coughed, something heavy in his throat, thick as ash but sharing the same taste as the plant’s skin-sweat-sex scent. Dust and debris clouded his eyes, and he only made it out of the front door thanks to Geralt’s direction. A few meters away from the destruction, they fell to their hands and knees, coughing up whatever they could.

“That...should be dead. I’ll eat my fucking boots if it isn’t,” Lambert wheezed to the sky.

“You did good, we’d be dead if you hadn’t told us to get out of there,” Geralt groaned, patting himself down for injuries. The praise went straight to Lambert’s head, a pleasant curl starting in his gut.  _ Huh. _

“Don’t mention it. Vesemir would kill me if I got you killed, anyway.” Lambert let his head fall back against the dirt. The house was still making noises as it settled. Evidently, the plant had wrapped its tendrils round the entirety of the property, and with the queen dead, the rest had followed suit. There was almost nothing left where the house once stood.

“Eh, wouldn’t mind dying if it were your fault,” Geralt coughed again, spitting to the side. Lambert felt the sun biting at his skin, everywhere it was exposed and also where his leather jerkin overlapped. He undid the buttons with shaky hands, before freezing, finally processing Geralt’s words.

“What?” Lambert most definitely did not squeak.

Geralt, however, had moved on from the situation. He, too, was itching something fierce, tugging at his clothes with disdain. “Well, I’m sure they could hear the fight from town, and the building collapse. I don’t think we need to bring back a trophy for them to gawk at.”

Lambert watched him stand and pace listlessly around the little courtyard. Those stupid leathers made his thighs look so fucking biteable.

_ Okay,  _ that _ thought was just a tad explicit. _

“Time to head back? I think I need a bath.” Geralt shook Lambert from his reverie on the White Wolf’s ass. Lambert grunted and rolled to his feet unsteadily.

At Geralt’s steadying touch to his elbow, Lambert hardly registered the feeling of shock before he was letting out a long, pitiful whine. It tore high and needy from his mouth, and sharply cut off with a sob when Geralt pulled his hand back. “Lambert, what is it? Are you hurt?” he asked, breathless with concern.

_ Uh, what? _

Lambert shook his head dumbly, his whole body vibrating from that point of contact like he’d just struck a rock with his sword. He doubled over, clutching his knees for stability, sucking breaths into his lungs by way of desperate gasps. A hand rested on his back, between his shoulders, but the desperate moan it punched out of him left him  _ aching. _

“There, just breathe, Lam, breathe. We—we gotta go collect the payment and we’ll get you taken care of, alright?” Geralt’s hand was rubbing little circles into his back, leaving him dizzy and stealing his breath. Lambert let out another whine. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, c’mon.” Geralt sheathed their swords and walked Lambert unsteadily back up the road.

His eyes alighted on the abandoned old barn by the fenceline, just out of reach of the dead fields. Geralt steered them both that direction. The shade was a blessing, and though the barn was near-empty, Geralt saw a good pile of firewood and hay left to rest on. He knew Lambert was in no fit state to make it back into town, but the thought of leaving him here while he got help stole the breath from his lungs. He shouted in frustration as he let go of Lambert. He made the most pathetic noise Geralt had ever heard, which had him going to his knees. His mind was swimming, but he had to concentrate. His hands shook as they pet over Lambert’s calves. 

“Gotta—I gotta go get the money, Lam.” Geralt whined. “I—hold on, let me—” Geralt went to his pack, rifling through it before he found what he needed. “We’re probably poisoned, I, here.” He poured about a third of a dose of White Honey into his mouth, and gave Lambert the rest. “Don’t die until I get back, please.”

“Don’t gooo…” Lambert moaned, writhing on the haybale. He pawed at his clothes, too hot, too constricting. Geralt had never seen Lambert acting like this. He prayed to whatever god was listening that they’d make it through this alive.

Six miles was a lot to ask a regular man to run, but Geralt was not a man, nor was he regular in the slightest. Trees and paths passed in a blur, and he managed to grab Roach from the stables before he returned, laden with their gear and money. Hands had grabbed at his hips, his ass, his arms, the entire way through the tavern. One woman had even hiked her skirt up around her hips.

But Geralt’s mind was only on Lambert, waiting, probably dying, in that barn.

The White Honey had done some of its job by the time Geralt returned, thirty minutes later. Lambert was breathing only in sighs, whines, and gasps when Geralt walked in. He secured Roach somewhere safe, and locked the barn door behind him. The shade was a relief once more. Geralt groaned and collapsed next to Lambert. “Lam?” he asked softly. Lambert gave a soft groan, sweat beaded on his forehead. His face was flushed and pink, which would have looked rather pretty if  _ Witchers didn’t blush like that. _ “Lemme take off your armor, Lam. Sit up.”

Geralt had to help him into a sitting position, but piece by piece, they stripped off the heavy leathers and armor until they sat in their smallclothes and light undershirts. They had both already sweat through those layers, leaving the material obscenely transparent. Geralt found his eyes drawn to the two tight, dusky points of Lambert’s nipples.

“You smell like human lust,” Lambert said softly. Geralt’s eyes snapped up to his, but Lambert was glaring at the dirt floor.

“They were all over me the second I ran into town. Barely managed to leave the inn room without someone trying to get naked. This town is fucking weird.” Geralt grabbed his waterskin and drank from it, then offered it to Lambert. “You look like you’ve been walking through the desert.”

“You look like you ran six miles for no reason.”

“Technically it was three. The White Honey helped, and Roach.” Lambert drank, one errant droplet of water leaking out the seam of his lips, trailing languidly down the column of his neck. Geralt felt himself holding his breath, but he couldn’t look away from it.

“Thanks,” Lambert said, handing the skin back. He hadn’t noticed Geralt’s intense stare, thankfully. Geralt shook himself a little, and they moved to walk around. It usually moved the toxins through his body a little faster, and being next to Lambert, sweat-slick and flushed, was quite the distraction. “Why didn’t you stay and fuck off the high of the hunt?”

_ Now that was a thought. _

Geralt frowned and looked at him. Lambert was staring into the distance. A beam of light shone through a crack in the roof, lighting up one eye a resplendent gold, leaving the other a stark color of polished bronze. “What?”

“I know how you get after hunts like this, you’re always hightailing it to a brothel with your pay as soon as it hits your hand. Don’t you always wanna fuck off the adrenaline?”

“First of all, I’m pretty sure the town was also affected by whatever was going on in that house, and more importantly, when I left, you were in the process of melting into the ground! Why would I spend a single moment thinking of anything but you?”

The words fell heavy and hard between them. They glared silently at one another. Geralt moved forward, unwilling to let his...well, his  _ declaration _ sit alone like that, but then Lambert fell to his knees.

He rushed closer, but Lambert still looked like he had before. The compulsive drop to his knees had shocked even Lambert, but he was now gaping like a fish out of water, staring up at Geralt with awe and something Geralt had just escaped from in the village.

_ Hunger. _

Geralt put a hand on his shoulder, eliciting a sharper whine than he’d gotten before, at the mansion. “Geralt—what? What’s happening?” Lambert whimpered, clutching at his middle and leaning into the touch with desperation radiating off of him. Now that Geralt had put the pieces together - the town, and now Lambert, and to an extent, himself - he realized what was happening with dawning horror.

Geralt went to his knees as well, putting his other hand on Lambert. They both shivered at the contact, so close through the thin, sweat-soaked layer. “I don’t know exactly, but I have an idea,” Geralt said softly, gently leading them back to the hay pile. Lambert gave a confused noise, and Geralt stroked his hand down his arm. The shiver it drew was delicious, and sent a sharp ache of lust through Geralt’s body. “Fuck.”

“What?”

“I think we need to fuck.” Lambert gave him an incredulous look. “I think we got infected with the same shit the others died from.”

“But we took White Honey, and we’re Witchers, shouldn’t we be able to fight it off?” Lambert protested, though he pressed ever closer.

“We were exposed, a lot. You were actually touched by it. Dragged forward by it, almost eaten by it. Remember the smell of it?”

“Whorehouse,” Lambert breathed. Geralt nodded.

“Maybe we don’t...we don’t have to? We can just, it might just be a skin-starving effect, we can just…” Geralt gently ran his hand over Lambert’s chest. Lambert whined sharply and arched his back. He clutched at Geralt’s wrist and squirmed.

“Fuck...feels like fire…” he bit out.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” Geralt whispered. Lambert shook his head vigorously.

“Good fire. Was so cold without it, without you...please don’t stop…” he begged. Lambert never asked for what he wanted, ever. Geralt hardly knew what types of things Lambert liked, but the sound of that sweet begging fueled the fire building inside him. “Don’t stop, please please please pl—”

“Shh, shh, you’re doing so well, shh, Lam…” Geralt moved forward, tugging at the fabric beneath his hands. He thought better and moved to stand, taking a great amount of willpower to do so. He hauled a few blankets out of their packs and spread them on the pile of hay. “Go on, lay down, just like that, good boy, there you go, Lam…” Lambert moved bonelessly as Geralt arranged his limbs on the blanketed pile. “Why don’t we get this off of you, you’re burning up. Sit up—” Geralt tugged it off and steadily pushed him back down, doing the same to himself.

Lambert gave a long, low moan at the feeling of Geralt’s hand on his bare chest. He had a rather attractive thatch of chest hair, tapering to a point hidden beneath his smallclothes. Sweaty as he was, he looked like a wet dream Geralt had hoarded in his darkest nights alone. “Turn around, good boy, there we go…” Geralt had no control over the words pouring from his mouth, but watching Lambert melt below him was enough encouragement to keep him going. Geralt draped his body over Lambert’s back.

The constant skin contact, back-to-chest, settled them both incredibly. They both steadfastly ignored Geralt’s growing erection pressing against Lambert’s ass.

Lambert’s ass, which was...significantly more wet than he’d anticipated. “Lam, did you fucking piss yourself?”

“NO?!” Lambert bellowed, wriggling to throw an elbow back at Geralt. He caught it easily and, without another second of hesitation, tugged Lambert’s smallclothes down.

The backs of his thighs were covered in a slick, oily sheen that baffled Geralt entirely. The scent hit him like a few hundred bricks. It was Lambert, concentrated and bottled and poured out here. He longed to bury his face between Lambert’s thighs and lick out that delicious slick, no matter what the fuck it was. “What are you fucking doing, Geralt, I’m gonna kick your—”

“You’re...leaking.” Lambert seemed to flush an even deeper shade of pink at that. “Might be a reaction from the pods we burned. Spores. Probably breathed them in. It was probably going to…”

“Pollinate me?” Lambert suggested with a dry laugh. “Great. This is. Fucking great. Just gonna have to be horny and touch-starved until this wears off, then?”

“I’m not letting you die or suffer through this alone. I’m infected too, you know.”

Lambert gave another laugh, this time much more bitter. “Yeah, you’ll be fine in a fifth of the time I am, Mr. Extra Mutagens.” Geralt lay back down and wrapped his arms back around Lambert, not bothering to tug his smalls back up.

“Then I’ll stay and take care of you, you stubborn asshole.” Lambert huffed, but settled into Geralt’s arms. “Just...let’s just rest a little, hm?” Geralt suggested. “Rest is as important as hunts.”

“Don’t quote Vesemir to me while we’re almost naked and my ass is leaking plant spore fuck-oil,” Lambert grumbled. “Don’t wanna think about that bastard. Weren’t for him picking me up to go twist me into a Witcher, I—”

“You’d be dead and buried already, I know, I know.” Geralt refused to call it snuggling, what they did next. But it was snuggling, reader. It was snuggling.

And it helped, at least for the first hour. But one the moment their energy returned to them, they woke and it was back to panting and sweating and writhing.

“This isn’t working, Geralt,” Lambert hissed. “We need to—” He cut himself off when he realized this day was probably going to end in fucking. No amount of Witcher stamina would be able to keep them from fucking. His heart throbbed in his chest, an ache that harmonized with the hunger in his core. “We need to try something else.”

“Alright,” Geralt said, sounding much more relieved than Lambert expected. “I’m...just tell me if it’s too much, if I go too far, if it doesn’t—”

“Shut the fuck up and just touch me, Geralt.”

Geralt wrapped his arms around Lambert again and pressed his face into the crook of his shoulder. His senses were immediately flooded with  _ Lambert, _ and it only increased with every breath he took. His hands started to travel across thick, firm muscle he’d only ever dreamed of imagining. He groaned as his hips unconsciously rocked against Lambert’s bare ass. “Sorry,” he muttered.

“Fine, s’fine…” Lambert panted, rolling his ass back against him. Geralt felt him swallow under his cheek.

Geralt gently trailed his hands lower and lower, until there wasn’t a single inch exposed that Geralt’s hands hadn’t mapped, memorized. The whole time he touched, Lambert was letting out a symphony of noises. Geralt had a hysterical thought about telling his bard he learned to play a new instrument while they were apart, but the moment Lambert hissed his name in unmistakable lust, a new desire took over.

All of Lambert’s favorite spots were revealed. Lambert’s body hid no secrets under Geralt’s ministrations. He added a constant stream of praise and whispered promises. “Gonna make you feel good, so good you’ll forget your name. That’s right, you like that? Doing everything so good for me, Lam. You gonna be good for me?” He punctuated his question with a hard squeeze to an exposed hipbone. Lambert whined and rolled his body.

“Yes, yes please don’t stop, feels so good…”

“Gods, don’t you feel what you’re doin’ to me, Lam? Making me so fucking hard, feel what you’re doing to me.” Geralt wasn’t even sure half the shit coming out of his mouth isn’t from someone else. He hoped Lambert didn’t—

Lambert almost shouted his next moan.

Well. That answered if Lambert minded whatsoever. “You gonna touch my prick at all?” Lambert teased. The lightheartedness of his tone was belied by the heavy, nervous glance he threw back over his shoulder. Wordlessly, Geralt reached lower, pushing Lambert’s smalls down his thighs. The arm under Lambert’s body tugged him up a little higher, while the other wrapped around an already-hard cock. They both groaned at the sensation.

It wasn’t uncommon for Witchers to find comfort in the bodies of their own kind, but Lambert and Geralt had always orbited around the act. They shared no more touches than sparring, chores, or hunts allowed for, until, of course, today. Lambert’s hips stuttered into Geralt’s grip. It was all a pleasant, novel blur of pleasure for a little bit, the sun still shining through the cracks in the roof, dust falling lazily around the barn.

“Fuck, Lam, you feel so good…” Geralt groaned into his ear. Lambert mewled happily and rutted back against him. “You look so fuckin’ beautiful like this, fuck. Lemme just see you…” Geralt let go of him and rolled him over onto his back.

Smallclothes around his knees, covered in sweat and whatever that slick was between his thighs, Lambert looked like everything Geralt could ever wish for. If he ever got his hands on a djinn, he’d ask thrice for just this.

“Perfect.” Geralt took Lambert’s smallclothes off the rest of the way and tossed them across the barn. He followed suit, stripping out of his own clothes and nudging between Lambert’s thighs. That pretty blush on Lambert’s cheeks edged down his neck to his chest, leaving him practically glowing under Geralt’s attention.

A punched-out groan left Lambert’s lips as Geralt wrapped his hand around both their lengths. They rocked together, gazes locked intensely. Lambert’s eyes kept flicking down, a little. Geralt felt the air in his lungs turn to fire. Lambert ran his hands up and down Geralt’s arms, his shoulders, his chest. There was no part of him that he didn’t want to put his hands on, like Geralt had touched him all over just before.

“So good for me, let me hear you,” Geralt whispered harshly, between pants. Lambert could not deny him that. He closed his eyes, scared of what Geralt would see if he truly let himself feel this moment. The hand that was resting by his shoulder moved, and there was suddenly a hand on his jaw. Lambert’s eyes flew open. “Eyes on me, Lam. I want to see you when you come for me, come all over my hand, all over yourself. Wanna fucking hear you.” Geralt’s thumb pushed between his lips, between his teeth, and pressed his mouth open, depressing his tongue.

A throaty groan left his lungs without resistance. “That’s right, Lam, good boy. You gonna be good for me? Let me take care of you?”

“Yeth,” Lambert whispered around the thumb. Gods, but he wanted to suck on it.

“You wanna suck on something?” Geralt asked.  _ Fuck, he’d said that out loud. _ Lambert nodded weakly, moaning around that thumb. It smeared spit across his cheek, leaving him feeling filthy and somehow even hotter. Every touch sent him higher.

Geralt walked forward on his knees, leaving Lambert reclined on the blanket. He gently fed him the tip of his leaking cock. Just from how he’d been handling the both of them, Lambert could taste whatever slick was leaking out from him. He groaned at the taste, all sex-sweat-skin and  _ them. _ Lambert kept his eyes open as he eagerly sucked Geralt’s dick, still whining and moaning around it.

“Ffffuck, Lam…” Geralt hissed, fisting his hand in Lambert’s hair and moving his hips, starting to slowly fuck his mouth. “You want this so bad, don’t you?” Geralt whispered. Lambert whimpered and let his eyes flutter closed a bit, hiding the prickle of heat behind them. “Shh, shh, it’s okay, just feel, just feel it, Lam, good boy...gods, your mouth is absolute sin…”

Lambert forced his head forward even more, and though the angle wasn’t the best, he took Geralt’s cock as best he could. Hopefully, if he was good enough at this, Geralt might even think about fucking his ass, spending deep inside of him so that Lambert smelled like him for days. Days like this, they weren’t bound to happen again. Would Geralt even want to look at him again after this? The thought pulled another whine from his throat. A thumb gently brushed over a cheekbone, another gently touching his strained jaw. He was stuffed full, he’d feel this ache for at least another day, even with Witcher healing.

“Lambert,” Geralt whispered. Were his mouth not otherwise occupied, his lower lip would have wobbled at the soft way Geralt said his name. Geralt repeated his name, ever gentle and kind. “Please look at me.” Geralt pulled his dick out of Lambert’s mouth, leaving him gasping for breath and drooling.

Lambert looked at his own hands, resting on Geralt’s bare, scarred thighs. He couldn’t make himself look up.

“I know you don’t...you don’t want me,” he said instead.

“What?”

“At the tavern, I...I didn’t wanna intrude. I didn’t wanna take up your time more than I already do—”

“Lambert.”

He had to look up at that, the semi-choked off way he spoke. Geralt’s eyes were filled with an unreadable emotion, a small frown on his lips. Lambert felt horrible to even draw that kind of expression from him.

“Lam, when I told you wanted to spend time with you, all those moments I’ve  _ sought you out on the Path, _ what did you think I was doing that for?”

“I don’t know, I assumed you did that with all the other wolves—”

“I don’t. Just you. Only you.”

“But your bard, he—”

“Is a friend. Nothing more.”

“But he—”

“He’s not you, Lambert. None of them are. Only you. It’s only been you.”

Now his lip does wobble. Those words broke the dam holding him up, holding back the waves of emotion he never thought he’d have to acknowledge again. His face turned away in shame, so used to being scolded for his affection, so used to burying his heart he didn’t know how to let it breathe when given air. The breath he took was shaky, and he had to hold it close and hard. The body above him moved, not away, but down, on top of him, covering him completely, with kindness and affection.

“You don’t believe me,” Geralt said. It wasn’t a question, but a statement. Lambert always had been easy to read, which upset him constantly growing up. Warm lips found his cheek, and it’s then that Lambert realized he was crying. “How can I get you to believe me, Lam?”

“I don’t know. We’re not...we’re not made for this. We weren’t made to care for anyone else but ourselves. I just...I always felt so...I felt like a freak long before the Trials made it true.” It wasn’t because they were both men. It was the principle of love and affection that was prohibited in Kaer Morhen.

“You’re not a freak, Lambert. You’re an asshole, but you’re not a freak. Not for this. Not for love.” And Geralt had voiced it; he’d said it aloud, in a steady voice, strong and sure. Lambert turned to face him, eyes still wet and stinging with tears. “There you are,” Geralt whispered. Hands cupped his face.

Lambert could only press into the touch, needy and breathless. Geralt moved slow, so slow, telegraphing his moves to the man beneath him. Their lips met with burning, clumsy passion, messy and sloppy but bleeding desire, pouring out need. It was everything Lambert had ever wanted from Geralt since he first heard about kissing.

The skin hunger was not done with them, though, and soon Lambert was writhing beneath Geralt helplessly, desperately. “Please, need to touch you…” Lambert whispered. Geralt nodded, feeling the same way. His hand returned, wrapping around the both of them once again.

Lambert’s mouth had provided quite a bit more slickness to Geralt’s cock, and the feeling punched a moan out of him instantly. He’d be hoarse by the end of this, whenever the spores were done with them. Geralt whispered praises, promises, secrets of how much he wanted, as they moved together. The words affected Lambert far more than he cared to admit, and he gave a sharp whine.

“C’mon, I wanna see you come. Will you come for me?” Lambert made a pinched face at the request, his orgasm taking over and flooding his brain with white-hot pleasure. He was vaguely aware of Geralt spilling on him as well, and the scent of their passion intensified that much more.

Geralt rolled off of him with a grunt, facing the roof. “Gods, Lambert, you don’t know how long I’ve wanted to kiss you.”

“Fuck, Geralt.” Lambert covered his face shyly. “Can’t just  _ say _ that stuff to me.”

“How do you feel?” Geralt asked softly, pulling Lambert’s hands from his face.

“I don’t know, I…” Lambert frowned as he took inventory of himself, finding the fire in his blood abated, but more akin to a retreating wave than a defeated tide. “I don’t think we’re out of the woods just yet.”

Geralt hummed and nodded in agreement. Thanks to their Witcher stamina, they were both still hard, but Geralt suggested they rest where they could.

“It’s like new parents, but we’re taking care of our dicks instead of screaming babies,” Lambert grumbled, pleased when Geralt laughed. They cuddled together on the blanket, brushing away some of the hay, and rested. They just had to survive this, and two Witchers against some sex spores was sure to be an easy match.

Or at least, until an hour passed, and Lambert felt the hunger clawing at him, leaving his arms pulsing between numbness and overstimulation. “I...Geralt…” Lambert whined.

“What is it?” Geralt gruffed, hovering over him. “You need to come again?”

“I...I think so.” Lambert couldn’t help being bashful. He could hardly ask for what he wanted from whores, why should it be any easier asking from his first and biggest crush?

Geralt dutifully jerked him off, but the tension never ended, not even when he spilled over Geralt’s fist. “It’s not working!” Lambert whined, writhing.

“What feels better? Trust your instincts, what do you want to do? Don’t fight it, Lam…” Geralt stroked his sweaty thigh with a gentle rhythm.

At the suggestion, Lambert immediately knew he wanted to be  _ bred. _ The thought was quickly eclipsed by shame and embarrassment again, though. “I don’t know…” he lied. Geralt could smell it on him.

Submission smelled like fresh grass, and want smelled like mulling spices. Lambert smelled like spring and autumn all at once to Geralt. “What if I fuck you?” Geralt said, his voice lower than he remembered it being in bed.

Lambert shivered, and half his next sentence left him in a squeak. He tried again. “I...are you sure? I don’t wanna make you—”

“I’ve wanted to kiss you since I was fifteen years old, Lambert. It wasn’t much longer before I wanted to plough your ass and make you scream my name.” Geralt nuzzled into the side of his neck, breathing deep the lust and pheromones Lambert was sweating out.

“Fuck,” Lambert squeaked again, burying his face into the crook of his arm. “I...I want that too.” A surge of pride welled up in Geralt’s chest, that Lambert could go from denying himself to expressing his desires so plainly.

“Well, let’s get you up, then.” Geralt was the strongest Witcher that had ever been forged in Kaer Morhen’s laboratories. He easily manhandled Lambert around on the blanket until he was on his knees, ass in the air. He’d never been so exposed in his life, but with Geralt behind him, with the promise to take care of him hanging on the very air around them, Lambert did not fear a thing.

Geralt’s hands gentled him anyway, though. They explored the vast expanses of Lambert’s back and shoulders, eventually migrating to his hips and ass. Each pass down ended in pulling his cheeks apart, salacious and breathtaking every time. “Gods, you’re so wet already, like a cunt just waiting to be fucked raw.” A moan caught itself between Lambert’s lips, but Geralt could hear it. “Oh, you like that, then? What about…” Suddenly, a hard slap to Lambert’s ass shocked him to his core.

“Fuck!” Lambert called, his voice cracking like it hadn’t done in eighty years.

“More?” Geralt panted. Lambert nodded, his head hanging between his shoulders. Geralt proceeded to land a few more hard spanks to his ass, pulling more moans and groans out of him. “Fuck, all pretty and pink for me, just askin’ to be ploughed.”

Lambert whined needily, and Geralt finally obliged with a finger circling his rim, and then slipping easily inside. He gasped in shock at the new sensation. “Fuck, you’re already so fucking loose and open for me,” Geralt rasped. “You alright?”

He could hardly breathe, could barely keep his eyes open at the feeling. Somehow, the toxins from the spores both heightened and eased the way, but Lambert couldn’t even think straight. He moaned at the loss when Geralt withdrew his finger. “Lam, you alright?” he asked again.

“I…” Lambert gaped like a fish, unseeing and overwhelmed. “I…”

“...you’ve never done this before, have you?” Geralt whispered, awe coloring his voice. Lambert wanted to be embarrassed, but he wanted Geralt’s fingers back inside him more. He barely managed to shake his head. The answering whistle was followed by the return of that finger inside of him. “Bet you’re still gonna feel tight around my cock, squeezing me for all I’m worth, huh?” Lambert had no words. He was just too horny to form them, or remember anything else but—

“Geralt…” He buried his face in his arms, rolling his ass back onto Geralt’s finger, pulling it deeper into him. It wasn’t enough. Geralt just shushed him again and held a hand on his lower back, as he eased in another finger. With how relaxed the spores were making him, he could feel them, but the resistance was not there.

_ Maybe we should have let the plant live, just a little. _ Lambert’s hysterical moan-laugh-sob made Geralt still, but he continued when Lambert rolled his hips again, taking him deeper.

“So greedy…” Geralt twisted the fingers inside of him, shoved in up to the first knuckle, before he found what he was looking for. Confirmation came in the form of Lambert’s surprised moan, bitten off and sharp. He felt boneless and alert all at once. “There we go.” Geralt began a full-out assault on that spot inside of him, rubbing and teasing in equal measure until he was close to spilling again.

“I’m—Geralt, I’m—” Geralt pulled his fingers back, until only the tips of them rested inside of Lambert’s still-leaking hole. He massaged the ring of muscle at his entrance as Lambert tried to fuck himself back on those fingers. “Why?” Lambert whined.

“If you come now, you’ll be too sensitive when I fuck you. Forgive me for being selfish, I want to feel you come on my cock.” A soft kiss to his shoulder appeased him the rest of the way. “You need at least another finger before you’re ready for me.”

“W’nt you now…” Lambert whimpered, bucking his hips up again.

“I know, I know, just a little longer. Here, let me give you my fingers again…” Lambert keened, long and loud, as three of Geralt’s fingers pressed inside. The burn was almost instantly drowned out by the pleasure, and he felt drunk on it, unbelievably intoxicated to be taken like this. “Taking me so well. Bet I could have just fucked into you without this, and you would’ve loved it. Is that what you want? You wanna get fucked like an animal? Claimed?”

“Yes!” Lambert pleaded. “Please! Please, Geralt, please…” he mumbled something into his arm that even Geralt couldn’t quite catch.

“Say that again?” he asked.

“Please...breed me…” Lambert whispered, harsh and tinged with want and embarrassment. The plea filled Geralt with incredible lust and want, tightening that cord behind his navel just that much more.

“You want me to—?” Geralt breathed. “You want me to breed you?” Lambert whined again and hid from his want. Geralt stroked a soothing hand down his spine. “You want me to fill you up, leave you dripping with me for days? Leave you fat and full of my come, til you don’t smell like anything but  _ mine?” _

“Yes!” Lambert cried again.

“I want that too.” Geralt growled and removed his fingers from Lambert’s dripping hole, flipping him easily and pressing him into the hay. He kissed ferociously, all tongue and teeth and not a single hint of earlier’s gentleness. Lambert’s legs spread wide, opening himself up for Geralt, wanting nothing but  _ him. _

Lambert’s throat bobbed anxiously as he anticipated what came next. Geralt adjusted him a little more, and with one hand, lifted his hips so Lambert’s ass rested on his thighs. Exposed like this, he should have felt vulnerable and flighty, but one look into Geralt’s eyes had him calming. It didn’t stop the hitch in his breathing when he felt the hot, blunt head of Geralt’s cock resting at his entrance.

Inch by inch, Geralt pushed forward, until the head of his prick popped inside of him. He gave a deep, satisfied groan, but never took his eyes off of Lambert. Lambert was trying to make sure he stayed conscious and on earth. The feeling was so strange, and unlike anything he’d ever felt before. He tried to say as much to Geralt, but all that came out was a thin, reedy whine.

Geralt took that as confirmation to keep going; he wouldn’t hurt Lambert like this, but he didn’t want to take any chances with him. In, in, in, he pushed, until Lambert gasped at the feeling of Geralt’s hips coming to rest against the back of his thighs. He hadn’t done any of the work; Geralt had pulled him onto his dick like it was the easiest thing in the world. “You alright?” Geralt asked in a tight tone. Lambert wriggled his hips, trying to get used to the feeling, which pulled a delicious noise out of Geralt’s throat.

He gave a downright wolfish grin and did it again, but this time Geralt’s cock brushed a rather spectacular and sensitive spot inside of him, and stars burst before his eyes like the colored bombs Novigrad set off in the new year. Geralt gripped his hips so hard they’d bruise for a few hours, and started to move.

The slow drag would have definitely been more unpleasant in any other circumstance, with any other lubrication, but as it was, Lambert couldn’t form a single word besides Geralt’s name as they rocked together. His legs came up to wrap around Geralt’s trim waist, how he’s seen whores do when they’re getting fucked. The new angle allowed Geralt even deeper inside of him, so deep he could practically feel Geralt’s dick up in his throat. “Gods,” Lambert choked out, hands scrabbling at Geralt’s back.

“Good? You good?” Geralt paused, shuddering with the will he had to exert on himself. Lambert whined a yes and craned his head up to get closer. Geralt captured his lips in a sloppy kiss. “Not gonna last long,” Geralt grunted, with his teeth around Lambert’s lower lip.

“M-me too,” Lambert stuttered, chewing at his lower lip, trying to distract himself from a rather quick end to this. It felt so fucking good, having Geralt inside of him, and he—

“Lambert, what is it?” Geralt sounded concerned. “Am I hurting you?”

“No,” Lambert said, but realized he wasn’t exactly selling it, thanks to his tearful eyes and choked up throat. “S’just. Y’r a lot,” he managed to slur.

“I know, I know, shh, shh, I’ve got you.” Geralt lowered himself down on Lambert’s body, pressing their chests together. They slid against one another as Geralt resumed fucking him, the sweat mingling on one another’s bodies. “I’ve got you.”

Lambert buried his face in the crook of Geralt’s neck and shoulder. “M’gonna—!” he bit off a yelp, and cried out as he clenched around Geralt’s cock, his own spilling between them. Bone-deep satisfaction settled in, with exhaustion waiting in the wings. He felt Geralt starting to pull out, but one Witcher-strong hand on his shoulder held him inside. “Don’t stop, please, please don’t stop…”

“Okay,” Geralt whispered, catching his lips up in a kiss again as he moved. It only took a few more minutes, but soon Geralt was pressing his forehead to Lambert’s and trying to hide his higher-pitched moans with breathy grunts.

“Lemme hear you, please…” Lambert said softly, pushing his fingers into Geralt’s hair. He groaned as Geralt’s thrusts turned erratic and intense. With a cry of Lambert’s name, Geralt came, painting his insides white and pounding out every ounce of pleasure he could take. Lambert’s afterglow had only turned more radiant, his blood singing in his veins.

Geralt gently pulled out of him, the gush of come flooding out of him. Lambert made an uncomfortable noise at the sudden, wet emptiness, and stayed still. Geralt immediately reached for his shirt, and wiped away what he could. Seeing Geralt’s clothes soiled by the mix of come and slick made Lambert’s head go dizzy and light. Everything looked pretty around them, dust dancing gracefully through the air, beams of late-afternoon light streaming in through the walls and roof. They eventually evened out their huffed breathing, synchronizing up like how they did when they meditated.

Lambert peeked at Geralt out of one eye, only to find Geralt doing the same to him. They shared twin bashful smiles, before rolling closer to one another. “Was that…” Geralt swallowed before speaking again. “Was that alright? Did you like it?” Lambert let out a delighted laugh.

“Like it? I can’t fucking feel my legs, I just came so hard.” He nuzzled his face into Geralt’s arm. “I...thank you.” He couldn’t look Geralt in the eye when he said it. “I’ve...I’ve wanted to do this with you for a long time.”

“Thank  _ you,” _ Geralt said, pressing a kiss to the top of Lambert’s hair. “So have I.”

They rested together, just enjoying the feeling of being with one another, for almost thirty minutes. “I think there’s a stream nearby. Should be safe to bathe in, if the plant is dead.” Lambert nodded. They didn’t bother dressing, just pulled on their boots as they left the barn. They were miles away from anyone else.

The stream was cool and fresh, and didn’t taste tainted at all. It was refreshing to clean off all that sticky sweat and come. Lambert let out a low groan at the feeling, before squawking when Geralt shook his wet hair out right next to him. They quickly lapsed into a play fight, wrestling in the water, when Lambert swooned - full-on swooned.

Everything went too bright and blurry for a moment, and his skin prickled and shivered all over. His knees gave out, collapsing him into Geralt’s arms. “Lambert?!” he panicked.

“Dunno what’s happening…” Lambert said, his mouth not fully cooperating with the words.

“I don’t think the spores are done with you,” Geralt said gravely. “Let’s get you back—”

“No!” Lambert whined, pawing at Geralt’s arm. “Need you, need you now.”

Geralt checked him over with his hands to make sure he wasn’t actually injured before reaching between his legs. Sure enough, there was more of that strange slickness leaking from between his legs. Lambert’s body ran hot, like a fever had suddenly taken hold of him. Geralt was worried; he felt fine, but Lambert was dealing with something more intense than he had. He was at least glad he could be able to better take care of Lambert, though.

“Alright, alright Lam, don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.” He looked around before he found a large, smooth boulder. “Here, lean on this, I’ve got you.” Lambert went to his forearms on the rock, presenting his ass in such a fluid motion that Geralt couldn’t help the possessive growl he let out. His hands roamed greedily over Lambert’s body, pulling and squeezing and grabbing where he liked.

Lambert seemed to really like the touches, rocking his body back onto Geralt needily. Geralt pushed two fingers carefully into him, the coolness of the stream grounding him slightly. Lambert was still fucked-out and loose from their earlier coupling, and he wasn’t showing any signs of oversensitivity. “You want me to fuck you again, Lam?” Geralt asked in a teasing tone.

Lambert shivered. “Please, please I want it, I want you in me again. Please…” He choked out another moan as Geralt lined up and pushed in all the way. His eyes flew open at the sudden fullness, and he hardly remembered how to fucking breathe.

“There you go, good boy, just like that, taking me so good like this, huh?” Geralt hissed in his ear, covering his body protectively - possessively - with his. “Bet you’d let me do this anywhere I liked, wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t even have to hide you, just tell you to strip and I’d fuck you right on the road, in the daylight just like this.” Lambert’s moan grew in pitch and volume as Geralt rocked into him. It was a ruthless pace, one more suited to a Witcher’s needs, and the flush of realization that Geralt was taking what his body wanted hit him hard.

Geralt mostly kept his hands on Lambert’s shoulders, pulling him back onto his cock with ease. Lambert was a limp mess, cock drooling into the stream steadily as Geralt rammed that spot inside of him that stole every one of his thoughts away. As they fucked, Geralt’s left hand snaked up to take hold of Lambert’s neck, a firm hold that sent a hot spark through every bone in his body. “Oh, you like that, Lam? You want me to control everything you do, even how you breathe?” Lambert nodded, as if Geralt couldn’t tell how aroused he was by this.

Geralt hauled him up until he was standing. Still deep inside his ass, Geralt rolled his hips in a circle. Lambert felt the hand on his neck squeeze at the same time his eyes crossed in pleasure. He’d never felt like this before. Geralt’s hand squeezed firmer and firmer until Lambert couldn’t take in a breath without it rattling pitifully. The noises seemed to only spur Geralt on even more, pounding his ass so hard the noise echoed out over the water and through the trees. “F-fuck!” Lambert rasped.

“That’s right, you’re gonna come for me just like this, aren’t you?” Geralt barely had to wrap his other hand around Lambert’s cock before he was shouting and tensing, spilling all over his hand and into the water at their feet. Geralt sank his teeth into Lambert’s shoulder, not breaking skin but almost. “Good boy, that’s right, you take this cock, you take what I give you,” Geralt growled into the skin, as if the words would write themselves across his shoulders if he bit hard enough. “You want my come now? You want me to fill you up,  _ breed _ you like a fucking slut? Like you’re nothing but a dripping wet hole to spend in?”

Lambert weakly whined and let his head fall forward, the only part of a nod he could manage. Geralt removed his hand from Lambert’s neck and pushed him back over the rock. He took hold of his hips and slammed into him, a half-dozen times before his peak crested and he spilled inside of Lambert once again. Lambert’s moans matched his as he rode out his pleasure. When his mind came back to him, he was aware of Geralt pressing kisses to his back and shoulders, doubly so where he’d bitten him. He could still feel phantom fingers round his throat.

He was wordlessly cleaned up again and led back to the barn. They were both so tired and sated, ready to collapse again. They didn’t bother dressing again as they collapsed on the blanket, in each other’s arms. Geralt didn’t let go of him for a second, kissing all over his face, his neck, his hair, each fingertip and palm, the delicate skin of his wrists, and every scar he could get to. Lambert basked in the touch, feeling truly happy and resplendent with joy for the first time.

Geralt dozed with him, their hands petting lightly at each other’s hair. Lambert dreamed pleasantly while they rested. When he woke, Geralt was kissing his cheek and getting up. He quietly tracked his movements by ear, hearing him rustle around his packs and tend to Roach. Lambert decided he loved that deep ache in his ass, the ghosts of fingertips on his hips. Geralt’s fingertips. Geralt’s had given him those aches. The happy feeling doubled again just as Geralt sat down with him.

“Are you alright?” Geralt asked, pushing his hand through Lambert’s hair again, sex- and sleep-mussed. Lambert nodded happily and kissed Geralt’s thumb.

“I think it’s almost done with me,” Lambert said slowly after some thought. “Still feel that heat inside me, I just…”

“I don’t want to hurt you by taking you again, we were...we were pretty rough.” Geralt’s face showed the concern already present in his voice. “Here, you should probably eat something. That’s most likely why you almost fainted in the river.”

“I did not almost  _ faint—” _

“Did too. Eat. Be good for me,” Geralt teased, grinning when Lambert’s ears flushed pink. His regular color was almost back. Lambert ate the nuts and seeds Geralt gave him without protest, though. They weren’t out of the woods yet, and Witchers had to be prepared for anything.

“I was thinking…” Geralt started, uncertain.

“Don’t do that, you might hurt yourself,” Lambert drawled. He received a punch in the arm for his troubles.

“Do you wanna fuck me?” Geralt said bluntly. Lambert’s mouth hung open a little, jaw slack in shock. “Don’t look like that, it’s just a question.”

Lambert thought about it. Well, he’d been thinking about it for something like seventy years, in all honesty. He slurped up the bit of drool threatening to escape his mouth and nodded. “Y-yes please. I would. Yeah. Let’s. Fuck yeah. You sure? Cus like. I can probably wait another seventy years for that. If you’re like. Oh we’re—okay, yeah.” Lambert’s rambling was cut off by another kiss.

“We’ll have to prep me. And since you’re not gonna be using this…” Lambert hissed a gasp as Geralt dipped two fingers into his aching ass once more. They were efficient, and it took his sex-addled brain a rather embarrassingly long time for him to realize he needed the slick he was producing. At the realization, Lambert groaned, long and low. “You wanna help me, Lam?” Geralt whispered.

“Really?” Lambert whispered back, not wanting to overstep. He was walking through the dark in all this. 

Geralt nodded, and with his other hand, took Lambert’s wrist gently. They locked eyes as Geralt brought his hand up, kissing each knuckle before sucking down his index and middle fingers. Lambert made a rather undignified noise that sent a fire burning through Geralt’s gut, but he was too busy teasing the man beneath him, slicking up those fingers nice and wet. When he was satisfied and Lambert was breathing a little shakily, he brought his fingers down, between his legs, behind his balls. Lambert gasped at the first touch against Geralt’s already-slick pucker. He’d been working on himself while Lambert’s brains poured out his ears due to Geralt’s mouth.

Lambert let his hand be moved, in little circles, easing around the area. When Geralt gasped at the feeling of Lambert’s middle finger pressing in, he nodded to Lambert, who, still gently, always gently for Geralt, moved it in and out. They moved almost excruciatingly slow compared to what they’d been doing the rest of the day, but Lambert was grateful for it. He got to hear every small moan and gasp of pleasure as his fingers opened Geralt up for him. “G-go up, deeper.” Geralt nodded, keeping a hand on his dick so it stayed out of the way. Lambert nodded and pressed in deeper like he was told.

There was a little bump that took him all of three seconds to recognize as that spot that made him see stars. Geralt let out a long, keening whine and rocked his hips down onto Lambert’s fingers, riding his hand needily. “Gods, yes, please, Lam, yes…” He was gripping his cock tight, but was obviously close to coming again. Lambert gently withdrew his fingers, but played with his ass a little, getting them slicked up again so Geralt could take three.

Geralt spilled thank yous from his lips as those three fingers sank in, filled him up. Lambert watched in awe as Geralt shuddered and gave himself over to this. He obviously knew what he wanted, how he liked it. An insecure part of Lambert hoped that he could live up to his past experiences, even a little. Geralt, seeming to sense this, leaned over and kissed his lips, driving his troubles away through affection and care. “Want you. Need you. Only you,” Geralt panted.

“C-can I?” Lambert asked shakily. Geralt nodded quickly, eager to get Lambert inside him as quickly as possible. Their movements turned frantic, Geralt rolling over and showing his belly so fast it stunned Lambert. This trust, this devotion, the sparkle in Geralt’s eyes that proves his affection, it was so much. It caught his breath again, and he had to give in to the sudden urge to kiss him.

Geralt made a happy noise against his lips, his hands coming up to rest on his shoulders. His legs fell open, prepared and wet and ready for Lambert. He realized now, beyond a single doubt, that Geralt had meant every word, that everything he’d promised, every sweet whispered phrase, every gentle utterance was true.

When Lambert pushed in, he didn’t look away, giving that same intense adoration back tenfold. He groaned at the tight, slick heat around him. Geralt was groaning happily again, wriggling his body down for more. Lambert’s hands moved on their own, snatching his wrists and pinning them to the blanket. Geralt’s eyes grew darker, filled with lust and need. Lambert slid his hands up the insides of Geralt's pinned forearms, their hands mirroring each other's for a moment before their fingers interlaced. He didn’t let go once, rolling his body into Geralt’s slow and steady, pulling out with a long sigh, savoring the feeling of the man surrounding him, beneath him, everywhere.

“Gonna fuckin’ kill me like this, Lam,” Geralt grunted, his eyes still hazy with pleasure.

“Yer a Witcher, you’ll get over it,” Lambert gave a lopsided smile. He could hear Geralt’s heart thump just a little harder, a moment before that soft look he’d had all afternoon took over his expression.

They wanted to make it last, knowing this was probably the last time they had to fuck because of the spores. Lambert kissed all over Geralt as best he could, giving him everything, every ounce of love he could hand over. His heart hadn’t worked this way in a long time, if it ever had, and he wasn’t sure how to do any of this right. Geralt moaned happily and just held on.

When they got closer to their peaks again, Lambert kissed Geralt’s clean hand, quickening his pace. He didn’t let go, which stunned him when Geralt suddenly came, untouched, between them. The exquisite squeeze of the body beneath him pulled him over the edge as well, hips stuttering as he found his release.

It was then that Lambert felt the last bits of the spores wear off, the combination of exertion, mutations, and potions being too much for them to remain. He kissed all over Geralt’s face to hide his disappointed expression. Would they do this again? Would Geralt regret this? Would he never seek Lambert out on the Path again?

“Can hear you thinking from out here,” Geralt murmured into his temple, just holding him afterwards. “Quit worrying. I’m not going anywhere.”

“For now, you mean.” Lambert hated how bitter he sounded. Geralt pinched his ass. “Ow! What was that for?!”

“For being annoying. I said quit worrying. I’m not gonna suddenly regret this as soon as we leave town. You think I’d give you up that easily, now that I have you?”

Geralt’s logic brought a lump up in his throat. “S’just that...nobody’s... _ had _ me before,” Lambert confessed. “We’re Witchers, abandonment issues are in the job description.”

Geralt nodded in understanding, still petting his hair. “Well, doesn’t mean we can’t change. I’m the White fuckin Wolf or whatever, should be able to mean I can do things different.”

“Don’t let that ego go unchecked,” Lambert grumbled. Geralt laughed again.

“Listen. I...if you’d rather we keep this to the Path, keep going as we were, checking in every so often and seeing each other at winter, that’s fine. I...I could live with that.”

“What’s the other option? What’s the one you want?”

“Stay with you. Hunts’d go better. Be happier. Do more. We’ve been on the Path too long to let ourselves willingly deprive one another of joy, understanding, you know?”

Lambert agreed, but, “You’ve been hangin’ out with that bard too long. Made you a poet.”

“Maybe he has. Wouldn’t trade a thing for what I have now, though.”

With the heavy fever gone, they reminisced, caught up together, and shared stories of their youth. A few times that night they caught one another’s eye and just held the stare for awhile.  _ It was gonna be alright. _

They ended up making a new habit. Tradition. Whatever you want to call it.

It was fucking weird.

But it was really, really fucking nice.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Come scream at me on [tumblr](%E2%80%9C)!


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